


Any Way The Wind Blows

by ChloeWeird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is this the real life?<br/>Is this just fantasy?</p><p>Stuck in a traffic jam, Dean has nothing better to do than rock out to his favourite song...and peoplewatch. Particularly, the guy in the car next to his with the awesome air guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Way The Wind Blows

_Is this the real life?_

_Is this just fantasy?_

_Caught in a landslide,_

_No escape from reality._

_Hell. Yes._ Dean thought, when the announcer finally shut up and one of the best songs in the history of recorded time came on his radio.

He certainly needed it right now. The 8:30AM sun was piercing his eyes, and the 3 cups of coffee he’d sucked back before he’d dragged himself out of his house were starting to press uncomfortably on his bladder.

 _It’s a good thing for Bobby I’m a good friend_ , he thought as he craned his neck to see that the line of cars in front and beside him hadn’t moved at all since the last time he’d checked. He usually avoided the morning traffic crunch, preferring to stay a little after five every day at Singer’s Auto Repair so that he could sleep in.

Today, though, Bobby had asked him to come in a bit early to help move the new fridge into the break room at nine, so he’d stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and cranky, only to be caught in a traffic jam on the normally smooth-sailing highway cause some idiot rear-ended another idiot and brought three lanes to a stand-still(According to the traffic report on the radio).

So, it was a good thing the song came on when it did, otherwise Dean would be sorely tempted to get out of his idling car and gank some rubber-neckers.

_Mama, just killed a man,_

_Put a gun against his head,_

_Pulled my trigger, now he's dead._

He turned up the volume and let the depressing and familiar lyrics fill the Impala, an incongruous smile on his face as the gruesome story played out. How strange, to be feeling sorry for a guy who shot man in his head, for seemingly no reason. The power of music, he guessed, and tapped his fingers on his steering wheel to the beat.

_Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters._

Damn. It really was a depressing song. He was usually too busy rocking out to notice, but this time he was hyper aware of the other drivers surrounding him. It wasn’t like he thought they were staring at him specifically, but he knew how eyes could wander when you’re only moving three inches at a time; he’d seen a guy digging for gold a little while back.

Second verse. Now, this was the kind of song that made him kinda wish he played piano. He could picture Freddie Mercury in the white outfit he’d seen in the music video on YouTube, rocking out on a bigass grand piano, like the total God he was.

Okay, maybe he’d watched the video more than once, paying particular attention to Freddie’s (May he rest in peace) ass in that weirdass satin getup. And maybe the frontman had played a starring role in his private time when he was a teenager. That hair, though. Not so hot.

_Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go,_

_Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth._

Ah, family. Still behind you even when you shoot a guy in the head, apparently. Dean cursed. Speaking of family, he’d forgotten to call Sammy last night like he meant to. They still needed to nail down all the details for his visit from California next month.

His cellphone burned a hole in his pocket. He knew it was illegal to talk on the phone while driving, but it was tempting to call him up while they were still creeping along like this. Surely no one would notice, or care.

Only the internal scolding of Sam himself kept the phone in his pocket, and he turned up the volume instead.

Finally it’d reached the guitar solo, and Dean fought the urge for all of five seconds before he gave in, and air-guitared as best he could while keeping half a hand on the wheel.

While he fingered the imaginary fret board, and inched forward as the cars around him moved up, a flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned his head to discreetly look at what had distracted him.

In the next car over, a man in a boring silver Honda was shredding as hard as he was, on an electric guitar that existed only in his mind. In fact, his rhythm on the invisible strings was suspiciously similar to his own.

On a hunch, Dean (regretfully) turned the volume knob all the way down and strained his ears to see if he could hear the music playing in the neighbouring car. Sure enough, the guy was listening to the same station.

Dean turned the music back up, and grinned as he split his time watching the road and the stranger ,whose messy brown hair was trembling from the force of his hands.

He had to hand it to the guy, he was committed. As the music changed to bizarre, but awesome middle section, he switched to the piano part, splaying his fingers on his steering wheel and singing along.

_I see a little silhouetto of a man._

The guy’s mouth was moving, and though Dean couldn’t hear what was coming out of it, it was clear the stranger was singing out loud. It was kinda fun to imagine what his voice would sound like. Was he off key like Dean usually was? Did he have a high voice? A low one?

From the suit and tie the guy wore, it wasn’t hard to picture his voice being snooty and nasally, perhaps with a sibilant S, but he knew he shouldn’t stereotype. Just because this guy looked like a pencil-necked paper pusher, didn’t mean he wasn’t cool. He obviously had decent taste in music, going by the gusto of his singing.

_Bismillah! No, we will not let you go. (Let him go!)_

Dean couldn’t help but laugh at his attempt to sing every part. His head jerked wildly to switch between the schizophrenic vocal lines. He had his hand in front of him like the dude in Shakespeare holding a skull, as if he was giving an important political speech, complete with a seriously intense facial expression.

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me._

Suddenly, the man’s head whipped to the side, and in a split second, he lost the badass smirk, and when he met Dean’s eyes, his face was flooded with surprise and mortification. Quickly, he turned back to the wheel, and his car scooted away from Dean’s…for about five seconds.

The gridlock was easing up a bit, moving a little faster, but the guy still couldn’t get very far, especially when Dean moved up as well. One glance through the window, and he could see the guy was still resolutely staring forward, his body tense, and no longer rocking to the amazing bridge.

Damn. He felt bad. This was the best part, in Dean’s opinion, and he’d clearly harshed this guy’s mellow, since he didn’t appear to be jumping to start up his awesome dance moves again.

_So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?_

Throwing his dignity to the wind, Dean turned up his radio as loud as it could go (which was pretty earth-shaking), and tried to get the guy’s attention with his own twisting, head-banging karaoke version of the song.

Given his wild movements and the buzzing, thumping bass, it didn’t take long for the man to notice Dean. He glanced over cautiously, and slowly, a smile grew on his stubble-covered face.

Whoa. The profile view didn’t do this guy justice.

_Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby._

With a little encouraging from Dean’s side, the stranger nodded along the song again, visibly laughing a bit at Dean’s antics.

The solo mellowed to one lone voice and softer piano, and still he made as much eye contact as they could, singing as dramatically as he was able. It was becoming more difficult, as the traffic jam they were stuck in appeared to be clearing up.

_Nothing really matters, anyone can see._

Out of nowhere, the sign for his exit appeared. He turned on his signal, and as the song drew to a close, he felt as if he should wave goodbye to the hard-rocking stranger in the car next to him. With a bit of regret, he pulled onto the ramp, with none of the blissed-out buzz he usually felt at the end of the epic song.

_Any way the wind blows._

The song that came on afterward was a bland, forgettable ballad by one of the newer bands he didn’t bother to keep track of. He arrived at Bobby’s and switched off the radio before the song was finished.

 

***

 

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah.” Rolling out from under the car he was working on, he craned his neck to see Bobby standing in the doorway.

“Watch the front for a few minutes, will ya? I gotta go see if the fridge boys are finished installing it yet.”

Dean groaned, but got to his feet anyway. “Why’d you let them set it up if you’re just gonna helicopter around the whole time? Aren’t you supposed to be a mechanic?”

“Shut up, it was free. Might as well let them do it, if I don’t have to pay ‘em.”

Fair enough. “Whatever, go pester them. Just don’t take too long, or I won’t get that minivan done in time for Mrs. Prissypants Soccermom.”

“Yeah, yeah, quit your whining,” Bobby said, and mounted the stairs to the tiny employees-only section of Singer’s. “I’ll be five minutes.”

Grabbing a rag from a table, Dean made his way to the front of the building. Plunking his ass down on the rickety stool behind the cash desk, he set about re-rolling the sleeves of his coveralls that had fallen down his forearms.

When the bell above the door jingled, Dean sighed and put on his best fake customer service smile. He was halfway through the friendly stock greeting, when he stopped, mouth falling open.

It was hard-rocking stranger. The suit and tie, messy dark hair and five o’clock shadow were unmistakable, though he looked considerably more rumpled now, at the end of the work day, than he had bright and early this morning.

“Hello. I need to settle a bill from last week, it should be under Novak.”

Crap. The guy hadn’t recognized him yet. Dean clicked his jaw closed, and turned to the ancient computer on the counter. Did he stay quiet? Would the man be embarrassed? Irritated?

But, man, what kind of messed up fate was at work here?

“Uh, yeah. Gimme a sec.” Pulling up the billing program, he scanned the outstanding tabs from the week before, and found “Novak” near the bottom. “Here we go, Novak. Silver Honda? Will that be debit or—”

“Oh my God.”

Dean blinked. What the…Oh.

The guy’s face was the picture of shocked horror, hilariously similar to how it had looked that morning when he’d found out he was caught. It had taken a minute, but this Novak guy wasn’t blind. He recognized Dean.

“Hey, there,” Dean said, to fill the awkward, mortified silence. “Of all the garages, eh?”

The noise the guy made was sort of a cross between a forced laugh and pained gasp. Dean couldn’t keep his grin hidden.

“I’m Dean,” he said, and extended an oil-stained hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The guy cleared his throat a couple times, and returned the handshake firmly. “Castiel Novak. You too.”

There was a beat or two of awkward, tense silence as their conversation faltered. Dean threw his polite caution to the wind to help them escape the horrible, painful position they were in.

“I gotta say, dude,” he started, and leaned over the counter, amiably. “You might have missed your calling as a rock star.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shot up. “You think so? How do you know I’m not one?”

“Well, for one thing, you wouldn’t be driving an eight year old Honda,” Dean let his eyes rake up and down the tailored suit and loose tie, “and second, you don’t really have the look.”

He laughed nervously, his long, sturdy fingers plucking at the buttons on his jacket. “I suppose, not. I doubt Mercury would approve.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he explained, hurriedly, “it’s a good look. It just says ‘insurance adjuster’ to me, not ‘lead vocals in a rock band.”

Castiel grinned, wryly. “You’re close. Tax accountant.”

“Ooh, fun.”

“Not so much. But it pays the bills, and keeps me in eight year old Hondas.”

Dean chuckled, and turned back to the computer screen as Castiel pulled out his AmEx. As he set up the machine, he took another long look at the guy.

“Excuse me if I’m being blunt, but you don’t really look the type to enjoy Queen.”

He received a raised eyebrow. “What do I look like I enjoy, then?”

As the machine beeped and printed his receipt, Dean affected a studious expression, and pretended to think real hard. “Hmm. Smooth jazz? Coldplay? Josh Groban, maybe? I don’t know.”

Castiel blushed. Actually _blushed_ , his cheeks turning the same colour as his pretty pink lips. Get one right, did he? “You’re not wrong. I never used to, actually, but an ex got me listening to them, and I kind of fell in love. With the band, not the ex.”

“Well, thank God for your ex-girlfriend, then. Queen is gold.”

“Boyfriend, actually.”

Oh. That was interesting. Dean didn’t typically hit on guys at work, or anywhere other than a club, really. He usually didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle if some macho dickhead got offended over their insulted masculinity.

But, Castiel, who’d just went out of his way to tell him he’d had a boyfriend, had awesome taste in music, and was nearly _edible_ with his deep, husky voice and bedroom eyes…for him, he could make an exception.

“So, I take it you’re not into many other of the rock and roll greats,” he said, casually, tearing off the transaction receipt from the printer.

“Not especially, no. I haven’t had much of an education, I guess.”

Here goes nothing. “I could help you broaden your horizons a bit. If you’d like.” Dean leaned his elbows on the table, and gave his best charming smile. “There’s a bar in town that does a great Best of the 80s night on Fridays. We could go sometime.”

Castiel’s already flushed cheeks reddened even further, and for a moment, Dean was sure he was going to stammer a refusal and walk out as quickly as he could.

“I’d like that,” he said, instead, surprisingly.

“Great!” Dean snagged a pen from a mug of utensils on the corner of the desk and scrawled his name and number on the bottom of Castiel’s receipt. “Give me a call sometime, when you’re free. Or, when you’re stuck in rush hour, and you want me to sing you some Freddie to improve your day. I can’t promise it’ll be any good though.”

Castiel laughed, and made his way to the door. “I will,” he said, and waved as he exited the shop with another cheery jingle.

Bobby chose that moment to re-enter the lobby. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” he said, but his grin refused to fade. “Mind your own business.”

Grabbing his abandoned wrench from the table, he paused by the CD player they kept in the garage for slow days. Rummaging through the dusty CDs in their cracked cases, he picked one, and set it to play before rolling back under the minivan.

Queen’s _Greatest Hits_ blasted out the tinny speakers while Dean went back to work, fingers flying over his air guitar.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Here it is, my first attempt at writing in the Supernatural fandom! I hope you liked it.
> 
> I'm sure there's a million fics just like this one, but it wouldn't get out of my head, so I just had to write it, sorry not sorry.
> 
> As always, I love constructive criticism, so anything you think could be improved, however small, I'd love to hear it. Thanks for reading!


End file.
